A Thread in the Tangle

by Sabrina Flynn

  Sometime later, Oenghus brought her a warm dinner and started the fire, chasing back the creeping chill. It promised to be another frigid night.

  “I’m sorry, Sprite.” His considerable weight settled on the edge of her bed and the wood groaned in protest. “I know it’s not fair, but such is life.”

  “I don’t understand why you won’t let me see him. Coyle is very nice.” Her voice was muffled by a cocoon of feathers.

  “Because he’s a man and you’re a nymph. Even if you were free to do as you wish, it wouldn’t be a good idea,” Oenghus said, and then paused, sighing heavily. “Believe it or not, this is for your own protection. Nymphs are—well they can be overpowering for a man. ‘Specially a young man. Just trust me all right? I’m not doing this to be cruel.”

  “I know,” she muttered, sullenly. She lowered the covers to regard him. “But it doesn’t make it easier.”

  “Life is never easy, Sprite. Let me know if you need anything.” He bent forward and kissed her forehead before his heavy footsteps faded from the room.

  Isiilde spent the evening curled beneath the covers with Marsais’ gift cradled in her delicate hands, traveling the realms as if she were at his side. She saw the Western Gates, and the town of Haven nestled against white cliffs that rose to dizzying heights. She travelled through its gates and walked the long, dark tunnel beneath the cliffs, emerging onto a vast bridge that boldly crossed a bottomless chasm. Above, in the sliver of starlight between the chasm walls, floated the Isle of Iilenshar, torn from the earth and placed in the clouds—a sentry against the Void.

  Still, Marsais kept walking, traveling along the Golden Road while armored trade caravans lumbered past his meandering pace. Due to its name, Isiilde had always imagined the road as a long line of yellow bricks, but there wasn’t anything golden about the road. Despite its mundane appearance, it was an impressive stretch of well maintained cobblestones that bridged the east and west. She decided that it had been named for the wealthy merchants who used the road to transport their goods.

  Along with his travels, Marsais had included some notable events. She stared with hypnotic wonder as fire filled her vision like a dream, raging across treetops as it consumed an entire forest with a hungry roar. It was music to her ears, a symphony of freedom.

  The memory shifted to a sea of green. A group of painted horse warriors galloped across an endless plain, noble and fierce, moving as one with their mounts.

  Sunsets and sunrises flared to vibrant life within the orb, along with sweeping vistas and an unparalleled view of the Merchant Kingdom of Cirye, making Drivel seem a backwater hovel.

  And finally Marsais turned the orb on his grinning face. He pointed it back to a campfire and tossed a pinch of unknown powder into the flames. Blue fire surged twenty feet into the air. The orb fell, thudding onto the earth. A pair of running feet were visible moments before an explosion rocked the earth, sending a shockwave of flame rolling over his head.

  She watched this scene over and over, and every time she saw his frantic boots racing across the orb’s vision, she began giggling as helplessly as the first. Eventually, the nymph deactivated the orb, nestling its cold weight against her breast. Late into the night, she surrendered to sleep.

  ❧

  Isiilde awoke before midday. A warm ball of purring fur snuggled against her aching stomach. The heat felt good. But an uncomfortable wetness intruded upon her senses. It wouldn’t be the first time Mousebane fell into the trough and then crawled into her bed. She lifted the covers, preparing to scold the cat, instead, her breath congealed in her throat. Blood stained her nightgown and sheets. Panic clutched her heart, causing it to flutter uncomfortably against her ribcage.

  Perhaps Mousebane had brought in a mouse or gotten into a fight. Hope flared, but it was dashed to pieces when she checked herself over.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks with the grim realization that she had come of age. She’d be taken from her home, from everyone she loved, and sold to a man who only wanted a nymph in his bed. Isiilde fled her bed and the stains that marked the end of her childhood. She began pacing, from hearth to window, her panic increasing with every senseless footstep.

  Acting upon a desperate idea, she swatted Mousebane off her bed and gathered the soiled bedclothes. It was very simple, she told herself, she would not tell anyone. Caitlyn Whitehand wasn’t due back for nearly another year, which was plenty of time to plan her escape, or to think of something—anything other than her dreadful Fate.

  As her frantic tears fell, terror gripped her and the walls closed in, slowly suffocating her beneath the thatched roof and cold stone. Her room seemed a cage.

  The fire in the smoldering hearth answered her silent plea, surging towards the panicked nymph as fiercely as a mother to her young with a rush of air and sweet release.

  The cottage shuddered with dread. Time moved at a meandering pace as orange coils of heat swept slowly over the entranced nymph. Timber cracked and windows split. Flame filled her ears, stole her breath, and somewhere, on some distant plane, a cat screamed. But it mattered not, for she was strangely detached from her cold body.

  Isiilde gazed from a high perch, watching the red flame devour her nightgown, licking at her naked flesh. Then the world shifted, and she fell off her perch. She looked down at her chest, where a jagged piece of timber had impaled her body. Unable to move in the quagmire of time, she could only stare in horror as her blood sizzled.

  A moment later, the timbers groaned overhead, something crashed, toppled, and the cottage came tumbling down.

  Fourteen

  THE HULKING WARRIOR swore under his breath as he heaved another stone onto the wall, wrestling it into position until it was secure and stable. If there was one resource that the Isle of Wise Ones had in abundance, it was rocks, which made farming a nightmare. It was a good thing that Oenghus Saevaldr was not a farmer, because he would have made a piss poor one.

  Gungnir and Sleipnir raised their heads from the grass, ears alert, gazing at a distant point across the fields. Oenghus straightened and turned, following their alert bodies to a familiar form who was walking through the high grass. Grunting, he turned back to his fence and set another stone in place.

  “That bad?” Oenghus asked, sparing his old friend a sidelong glance when he stopped on the other side of the disreputable wall. Isek had apparently attacked Marsais, because he was clean shaven, except for his braided goatee—a vestige of rebelliousness. The vagabond had been transformed into a respectable Archlord, and as such, he currently had the disposition of a recently bathed cat.

  “By the gods, don’t even ask,” Marsais growled. “I should’ve never come back.”

  “The throne suits you—when you’re in the mood.”

  “Which is never,” Marsais snapped, plucking irritably at his high collar. “Though occasionally, ruling has its benefits. The matter involving a certain nymph and the attempted murder of a dog has been cleared up.”

  “Whatever you had to do; I’m indebted to you,” Oenghus said, nodding with weighty gratitude.

  “Oh, come now.” Marsais dismissed the debt with a wave of his hand. “You’ll always be indebted to me, old friend, and I to you, so stop counting. Besides, I’d miss Isiilde terribly. Fortunately, that abominable dog is disliked by everyone. It seems the vast majority of our fellow Wise Ones were amused by the whole affair and since no one actually witnessed the incident—there wasn’t any proof against Isiilde.”

  “What about Thira?” Oenghus paused to spit her name from his lips before continuing, “She’s not one to let things drop.”

  “Thira’s one redeeming quality has always been her cold-hearted logic. I simply reasoned that since nymphs aren’t human in nature, then bringing charges against a nymph for attacking a dog would demand that we hold a trial for every wolf who killed a rabbit. Thira argued that the nymph shouldn’t be here in the first place. I pointed out that if Isiilde wasn’t allowed in the tower, then neither should Crumpet. She h
ad no further comment on the matter.”

  Oenghus chuckled heartily, low and rumbling, eyes gleaming with appreciation for his former master’s style.

  A gust of wind swept over the fields from the ocean, disturbing the long blades of grass with its restless touch, making Marsais shiver. “You’d think winter was already here.”

  “If you’re bloody cold then give me a hand.”

  “Hmm, as tempting as that is, I think I’ll suffer through,” Marsais remarked, primly.

  “Dandy,” Oenghus spat, grabbing a toppled stone from the earth. He heaved it back to its place on the wall.

  “Is Carrothead still trying to get at the mare across the way?”

  “It’s Gungnir, and yes, he won’t admit he’s gelded.” The Nuthaanian directed a baleful glare at the horse, although he suspected that the beast would kick at the fences even if there wasn’t a mare on the other side. It was just his luck to own the most obstinate pair of horses on the Isle. Oenghus went about his work, waiting for his friend to start venting. It didn’t take very long.

  “Do you know what those fools in the Circle did?” Marsais asked. He answered his own question before Oenghus could point out that he held a seat in the Circle and had been present for every council meeting. “The Nine sent another scouting party into the Dracken Wood.”

  “I voted against it—not that it mattered.”

  “Good scouts don’t come easily. This will make fifteen whom we’ve lost to that cursed wood. One might think they’d get it through their thick skulls that some things are better left alone,” Marsais said, rubbing at his chest with agitated pain.

  “Do you know what’s in the wood?” Oenghus studied Marsais carefully, recognizing the slight shadow flickering across his friend’s eyes. He squared his shoulders, jabbing a harsh finger at the lean man. “Look here, Scarecrow, if you bloody well know, why don’t you just tell them and be done with it?”

  Marsais met his gaze with unflinching certainty. When he spoke, his voice was low and uneasy, “There are terrors in these realms that would make a god weep with fear, Oen. I pray every day that they remain shrouded in the shadows where they dwell. Some things are best left unknown.”

  Marsais glanced around the empty fields nervously, and then shook himself, as if shrugging off an uncomfortable memory. He tugged his cloak around him like a raptor folding its wings over its thin body, and continued in a conversational tone. “Hmm, speaking of which, Aislinn is petitioning to send a scouting party to the Isle of Blight. She’s even volunteered to lead the expedition herself.”

  Oenghus did not press Marsais with questions about the Dracken Wood, because when the Scarecrow got that look in his eyes, it usually meant trouble of the worst kind.

  “Aislinn proposed the expedition last month and Isek flat out refused,” Oenghus said instead, tugging on his beard, mildly amused. The woman couldn’t even travel to Drivel without an armed escort.

  “And that’s exactly the issue. All the requests and complaints that Isek has handled over the past six months are being brought up again, in hopes that I will rule differently. I’ll be sitting on that cursed throne for the next month.”

  “If I have to hear you complain about that bloody chair one more time, I’m going to have Isek put a frilly cushion on it for your bony arse.”

  “Hmm, I already tried, he claimed a cushion wasn’t befitting for an Archlord.”

  Oenghus threw his head back and laughed, startling the horses from their lazy breakfast. “He grooms you, dresses you, brings you your bloody meals, and orders you around like he’s your Oathbound. You’d be better off just finding a good woman, Scarecrow. At least you’d be warm at night.”

  “You know I barely sleep,” Marsais muttered, gazing to the ocean.

  “Aye, well maybe that’s the problem.” Oenghus leaned against the stone wall with a sigh and fished his pipe out of his pouch. His old master had always been a bit of a hermit, of course Oenghus couldn’t blame him, it wasn’t easy having friends when you were a seer. To say nothing of his age. As soon as anyone discovered that Marsais had lived through the Shattering, the questions began, and they grasped for gritty details like merchants striving after a copper.

  “You didn’t shake the Keening, did you?” Marsais’ silence was answer enough. “Tell you what. We’ll go back to Drivel and take Maira up on her offer. We’ll find you a few busty lasses and get you drunk out of your wits.”

  “Ah, the answer to every Nuthaanian’s ailment. I sincerely doubt I’ll find a good woman in a whore house, although you seem to find an ample supply.”

  “You might be right, probably wouldn’t work for you with your tastes. Why’d you come back, then?” Six months was a short time for Marsais to be away. It wasn’t surprising to discover he hadn’t shaken the tempting whisper of Death’s embrace.

  “The farther I went the worse it became,” Marsais answered, scratching at his chest. “My visions followed me with a vengeance.”

  “They’ve been bad?”

  “When are they not?” Marsais whispered, bitterly.

  Oenghus had learned long ago not to ask for details. If there was something his old master wanted him to know, then he’d tell him, and not before. Trying to get anything out of Marsais was near impossible. He’d have better luck convincing Gungnir that he wasn’t gelded. At some point through the years, Oenghus finally realized that he didn’t want to know what tomorrow would bring, because his old friend’s foresight was more curse than gift.

  “Is Isiilde still sleeping?” Marsais squinted through the mist, over the fields, and towards the cottage. “I have another audience this afternoon, but I thought she might be in the mood for a lesson.”

  “She’ll be in a foul mood, is what she’ll be.”

  “I certainly hope I was not the cause,” Marsais said, looking to Oenghus for answer, and when he saw the regret in the Nuthaanian’s eyes, he asked, “What’d you do now?”

  “I told her to stay away from Helwick’s apprentice.”

  “Oenghus,” Marsais hastily began, “I swear, I only turned my back on her for a few minutes, and the next thing I know some young man was kissing her hand. For what it’s worth, he seemed very respectful.”

  “That’s the bloody problem,” Oenghus spat, and then sighed, sitting on top of the stone wall. “He’s a good lad, with more of a head on his shoulders than I ever had. I’d be thrilled if one of my other daughters had sense enough to find someone like him. By the gods, Scarecrow, you should’ve met some of the louts I’ve caught my daughters fooling around with.”

  “She’s an unawakened nymph, Oen, too innocent for the idea to even occur to her, which is why you did what you had to.”

  “Aye, but I can’t stop thinkin’ that she’s never going to be with a man she loves, or wants for that matter,” he rumbled, emphasizing his distaste with a harsh exhalation of pipe smoke. “You remember what you were doing at sixteen?”

  “Hmm, you’re asking a man who forgot his own name for a number of years, but I can guess what you were up to. Fighting, carousing, and—Oenghus!” Marsais exclaimed, grey eyes widening with horror.

  Oenghus followed his gaze to the source of his distress. The two men reacted in the same instant, racing towards the cottage, which was being consumed by a dark cloud of billowing black smoke. They were halfway across the field when the fire surged, ripping through the roof with an exuberant hiss. Timber groaned, splintered, and the cottage crumbled.

  “Isiilde!” Oenghus uselessly bellowed, running towards the fire with every ounce of power that he possessed, quickly outdistancing Marsais. Fire curled along the ground and shot up into the air with unnatural ferocity that could only come from his daughter.

  The barn was already ablaze. It was only a matter of time before the flames found his distillery. Heedless of his own safety, Oenghus kept running, vaulting over the little fence that protected the garden. The combustible compounds within the barn ignited. The shockwave caught him in midair and like
a child’s doll, slammed him easily to the ground. He shook off the blast and surged to his feet, ignoring the wooden shards embedded in his flesh.

  Oenghus reached the cottage door as Marsais’ chanting voice filled the air, and a moment later, a storm swirled to life, beating back the flames with icy determination. He kicked the door in and a breath of heat roared from the doorway. He twisted to the side, avoiding the fireball. Summoned shards of woven ice ripped into the cottage at Marsais’ command. Oenghus followed on the storm’s heels, wading through the flaming wreckage, searching for his daughter.

  “Isiilde!” he coughed, squinting through the suffocating smoke. He fought his way into her room, or rather what was left of it. The white shards of ice managed to smother the blaze, leaving a smoldering maze of timber and stone that he scanned with hard, desperate eyes. A shock of red hair poked from beneath the rubble.

  “Marsais, get in here!” Oenghus heaved the timber and debris to the side, revealing more of his daughter’s battered body with every shifting piece. The timbers were still hot, burning his hands as he frantically worked to free her.

  “By the gods,” Marsais breathed from the doorway, however, he recovered quickly, scrambling over the timbers. He crouched beside her, pressing his fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse. “She’s alive—for now, but she’s pinned.”

  Oenghus grunted, dragging another heavy piece of timber off the pile and tossing it aside. He paused to survey the remaining rubble, and then got into position, gripping a thick rafter beneath the tangle of wood.

  “Ready?” Marsais nodded. Oenghus lifted the wooden support with a surge of power, supporting a good portion of the collapsed roof while Marsais dragged the nymph to safety. When she was clear, Oenghus released his burden and it fell with crushing finality.